


building a new deck off the back of your house

by MontanaHarper



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s05e06 The Shrine, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4904344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/MontanaHarper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Are you saying you missed my singular personality and matchless people skills, Colonel?" </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonlettuce (Claire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/gifts).



> For darling Claire, on the occasion of her birthday. Alas, there are no tentacles, but I hope she likes it anyway.

The thought that echoes through Rodney's head in time with the pounding of his heart and the thud of his running footsteps through the quiet corridors of Atlantis is that John is gone. John is gone and Rodney has lost his chance to say goodbye — has lost his chance to say _everything_  — so when the doors slide open and John is right there in front of him, looking soft and sleep-mussed, his expression full of concern, all the breath leaves Rodney's lungs. 

The stunned relief lasts only a moment before the terror reasserts itself and he's overwhelmed by the memory of waking alone in his room, the quiet stillness closing in on him. It's John's gentle voice and strong hands that break through his panic, and it's John who — Rodney remembers this, at least — knows, too, how it feels to find yourself alone in the city, abandoned and afraid. John understands. Rodney wraps himself in the jacket he's been given — John's jacket, and it's almost like having John himself wrapped around Rodney, warm and safe and comforting — and lets himself be led out to the pier.

~ | ~ | ~

John won't let him say goodbye.

They're sitting and watching the ocean, the solidity of John's shoulder against his own lending him strength and maybe even a little courage. The beer has left Rodney feeling warm — or maybe that's John's shoulder again — and he's trying to say goodbye, trying to explain how important it is that John's memory of him be true and not tainted by this stranger Rodney is becoming, but John isn't listening. Or...maybe he's listening but he's trying to tell Rodney something in return, because there's more to John's words than stubbornness and anger.

So Rodney looks him in the eye when John says "no" and "that's final," takes in the soft curve of John's parted lips, and thinks to himself that he's got nothing to lose anymore. If it goes badly — and even as far gone as Rodney is, he's still Rodney and he's still aware that things in his life seldom go right if there's any other possibility — it's not like he'll remember it in a week, and John will probably chalk it up to Rodney losing his mind.

He leans forward just a little, closing the distance between them, and kisses John.

The kiss is soft and chaste, but not quick or furtive; Rodney means it to be a statement, telling John everything he's been afraid to put into words. For a long moment John is perfectly still, his lips yielding but unresponsive against Rodney's. Rodney has just enough time to feel the beginnings of panic start to unfurl in his stomach before John makes a low, quiet sound and his hands come up to cup Rodney's face and then he's kissing Rodney back.

Rodney's not sure how long it lasts, but when John finally pulls back they're both a little breathless. John slides his hands down to rest lightly on Rodney's shoulders, their foreheads touching like an Athosian hello...or goodbye.

The ache in Rodney's chest hasn't eased at all, and he's not sure why he thought it would. Even so, he's glad to finally know the answer to the one question he's never dared ask, glad to have the memory of this moment, no matter how fleeting that memory might be. Hot on the heels of that thought comes the realization that maybe John wouldn't agree; Rodney's got it easy — his time to mourn missed opportunities will be short — but John is the one who has to live with any regrets, and Rodney feels like he should apologize for that but he's not sure how.

He takes a deep breath, the salt tang of the ocean blending with John's warm, masculine scent, and forces himself to relinquish John's touch, to turn away. Opening his eyes, he focuses on the beer can in his hands and lets the silence stretch until it feels like they've both got their balance back. Beside him, John takes a drink, and then another. They're not even touching at the shoulder anymore, but Rodney can still feel the tension radiating off him. 

There's so much he wants to say to John before it's too late, but he doesn't want to be the source of any more regrets, so he opts for truth but wraps it in humor. In the face of John's uncertain look, Rodney can't keep his own expression schooled into seriousness; he breaks, and then they're both laughing, John dragging his sleeve across his mouth to wipe away the spilled beer.


	2. Chapter 2

Judging from the way John is essentially a ghost until Rodney's settled back in his own quarters — Jeannie and Jennifer have finally gone to get some well-deserved rest of their own — Rodney's guessing that John's been lurking somewhere just out of sight, waiting to get him alone. He's not sure if the fact that John obviously wants privacy for this visit is a good sign or a bad one. He's been mentally preparing himself since he woke, half his mind on small talk with Jeannie and on convincing Jennifer that he's fine, and half running through potential "awkward encounter with John" scenarios, the best case of which is that they both pretend the night on the pier never happened. That looks highly unlikely now — even John's casual lean against the closed doors looks tense — and Rodney braces himself for the worst case: anger, rejection, getting kicked off John's team.

Instead, what John says is, "Because I was selfish," like they're in the middle of a conversation, and Rodney blinks, mouth already half open to say...something, he's not sure what.

So he goes with: "I...sorry, what?" Not the most eloquent response, but he had brain surgery by power tool less than twenty-four hours ago, so he figures his temporary conversational shortcomings can be excused.

"At the shrine," John elaborates, "you asked why I wanted to say goodbye then, when I hadn't wanted to before." 

Rodney nods. "Right, but that still doesn't answer the question. Selfish is a value judgment; what was your reason for acting selfishly? Because I find it hard to imagine that you simply couldn't bear not being exposed to my biting sarcasm one last time before I died."

That surprises a huff of laughter from John. "Well, that might just be a failure of imagination on your part, Rodney." He's smiling when he says it and, weirdly, Rodney believes he means it. 

"Are you saying you missed my singular personality and matchless people skills, Colonel?" he asks, and watches as John licks his lower lip the way he does when he's nervous. Suddenly that tense lean, with his arms crossed in front of himself like a shield, is looking less and less like anger, and Rodney's re-evaluating all his scenarios, wondering if maybe his best case was somehow, miraculously, not actually the most he could hope for. 

"Colonel? Last week you were calling me John." John says it like it's an offering, or maybe a proof — arguing the truth of their unique interpersonal equation.

Rodney remembers that, remembers the ease with which the name spilled from his lips despite so many years of distancing himself with the formality of title and surname. He's been slipping, this last year, but even so it's a rarity, or at least it was until he started losing himself. After that, he took all kinds of liberties, and using John's given name was probably the least of them.

He debates with himself for a fraction of a second, trying to recapture the feeling of limitless possibility that came from having nothing to lose, and then he points out, "Last week I was calling you Arthur," which gets him a brief twitch of John's lips: an aborted smile.

"That, too," John allows. He uncrosses his arms, but only to shove his hands in his pockets. It makes him look smaller, somehow, like he's folding in on himself. "I needed you to be yourself again," he says softly, a confession. "I needed to know if it had really been you, or...." The words trail off and he shrugs.

"Or if a side effect of losing my mind was that I went around kissing random people?" Rodney asks, incredulous. 

"Cut me some slack, McKay," John says, his shoulders straightening, and there it is: the fire that Rodney's used to in their interactions. "It's not like you'd ever shown any interest in guys, let alone in _me_."

That pulls Rodney up short, because he doesn't even have words for how wrong that statement is. He's torn between taking the out offered by John's obliviousness or winning the argument at the cost of possibly humiliating himself. It's actually a more difficult decision than he might've imagined; somewhere along the line, John's opinion of him started to matter when almost no one else's did.

Finally, he says, "Did you miss the part where for the last four years I've been bitterly jealous every time you looked at a woman? Were the scathing comments too subtle for you, John?" The words are right, but even he can hear that they're blunted, his tone laced more with resignation than with razor wire and disdain. 

"Oh, I could see you were jealous," John says, leaning a little more into Rodney's space in a way that's probably meant to be intimidating but just makes Rodney want to straighten his spine and lift his chin in challenge. "Blind people all the way back on Earth could see you were jealous, Rodney. You raised cockblocking to an art form."

"Well, then?" It seems to Rodney like it would be a pretty easy piece of deductive reasoning: A = B and B = C, therefore A = C.

"Well what? You like women, a woman hits on me instead of on you, you're jealous. Occam's Razor. It's not like I was leaping to unwarranted conclusions," John says, and much as Rodney doesn't want to admit it, John's not wrong. He took the data he had available and formulated a reasonable hypothesis; it's not his fault the data was incomplete. 

And that thought leads him back to where this conversation started, with John's hypothesis altered after Rodney supplied him with a new — albeit potentially tainted — data point in the form of a kiss. 

"Wait a minute," Rodney says, remembering his own thought processes that night on the pier, when he assumed John would just chalk it up to Rodney's altered state and move on. "What exactly was your plan, then? Take me to the magic shrine, wait until I was myself again, and then pull me to the side and casually ask, 'oh, by the way, are you actually gay for me or was that just some kind of aberration caused by your impending death'?"

"I don't — " John starts, and then cuts himself off. "I hadn't thought that far, okay? I just wanted you back. I wanted to know if prickly, sarcastic Rodney would still kiss me."

Rodney repeats slowly, "Prickly, sarcastic Rodney?"

John looks faintly embarrassed. "Yeah," he says, with a defiance that's belied by the way the tips of his ears are turning pink. "Warm, friendly Rodney liked everyone. Sure, he'd kiss me, but he'd probably kiss Teyla or Doctor Keller, too." And Rodney can't actually argue with that, because he knows he would've kissed Jennifer if he'd had the chance.

"Okay, I'll give you that one. Warm, friendly Rodney did, in fact, make a declaration regarding his feelings for Doctor Keller," Rodney admits without thinking, and he sees a flash of something like hurt cross John's face before it's replaced by the familiar neutral expression that Rodney's come to recognize from innumerable offworld missions gone bad. The last thing he wants to do is make John look that way, and he pushes on quickly, "Not that it makes any difference, since Doctor Keller apparently prefers the company of manly, laconic Ronon."

"Right." John nods.

Rodney can tell immediately that he's only made the situation worse. He's terrible at this and he knows it. He thought he was getting better — lessons learned during his time dating Katie and from whatever friendly not-dating thing he and Jennifer had been doing — but obviously not enough better, because John is pulling his hands out of his pockets and getting ready to _leave_ , and then they'll be back to the suddenly unthinkable options of Rodney's best-case/worst-case scenarios. 

"Antarctica," he says, throwing himself on the grenade. He supposes it's only fair that he's doing it for John, since it was John who taught him how to be courageous in the first place.

John stops in the middle of turning away. He looks back at Rodney, but the movement is just a little slow, like he doesn't really want to meet Rodney's eyes. "Antarctica?" he prompts after a moment.

Rodney takes a deep breath. "Antarctica," he repeats. "That's where it started. The pining, that is. Well, it wasn't really pining yet, it was just noticing at that point. You were sitting in the chair, staring up at the hologram of the solar system, and I suddenly thought to myself, 'You are just unfairly attractive, aren't you, Major.'" There's a soft snort from John, but Rodney keeps going. "Then we came to Atlantis, and it turns out you're not just pretty, you're also smart and brave and...and stupidly self-sacrificing — which is not an attractive trait, by the way — and after that there was definitely pining."

While he's been talking, John has turned to face him again, which has to be a good sign, right? Rodney takes a step forward, almost into John's personal space, and says, "John, future me spent twenty-five years doing nothing but figuring out how to get you back."

John's expression shutters again. "Future you was trying to change the timeline so that his girlfriend Jennifer didn't die," he says, and that...that's a data point _Rodney's_ been missing, a data point that explains a lot, actually. Not that it changes anything for Rodney, of course.

"Which of us is in a better position to evaluate how I feel, John, me or you? I repeat: pining. If I'd had even the barest hint that it wouldn't result in abject humiliation — mine, obviously — I would've kissed you years ago." He doesn't mention Jennifer's preference for Ronon again, because he can see now that it sends the wrong message. Who says he's not teachable when it comes to relationships? "So to answer your question: yes, prickly, sarcastic Rodney would still kiss you."

"He would," John says, his tone flat — not quite disbelieving, but close — and Rodney is seriously considering moving his argument into the realm of potential oversharing (he's got a mental PowerPoint presentation entitled "On the Appeal of Lt. Col. John Sheppard," and it's not even entirely pornographic, thank you very much) when he notices the smile tugging at the corners of John's mouth. John shakes his head, mock-sadly. "I don't see any empirical evidence, Rodney."

"God, you're an asshole," Rodney says, and kisses him. He feels the smile widen under his mouth, and John pulls back briefly, just far enough to say, "It's part of my charm."

It's true, but Rodney doesn't have to admit it. Instead, he lets John steer him backwards toward the bed — warm, strong hands sure on Rodney's hips — trusting as he always does that John will keep him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, God, it keeps getting _bigger_. Porn up next, I promise!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, here's the porn. Sorry for the delay!

Rodney's calves bump against the bed, but the gentle push he expects from John never comes. Instead, John drops into a crouch, one knee on the floor, and begins unlacing and removing first Rodney's boots and then his own, and Rodney can't help but focus on the fact that John is _right there_ , level with where his cock is starting to seriously tent out the front of his khakis. He reaches down and adjusts it to a more comfortable position, giving in to the urge to palm himself, pressing the heel of his hand hard against the ache of arousal. John looks up at the movement and a wicked smirk curls one corner of his lips, coupled with a suggestive twitch of an eyebrow, and this time Rodney's pretty sure the lip licking is intentional rather than an unconscious sign of nerves.

The thought that evokes — of John kneeling at Rodney's feet, mouth wrapped hot and wet around Rodney's cock — is more than he's prepared for, and he closes his eyes, feels himself sway a little.

John is on his feet in an instant, hands wrapped around Rodney's biceps. "Hey, you okay?" he says, and all the playfulness has gone out of his tone. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea right now."

Rodney levels his best glare at John and says, "If you stop now, you will never have hot water in your shower again." John looks taken aback; in his head, Rodney rewinds and replays what he said, and okay, yes, bad. "Not that you have to do anything you don't want to do," he amends hastily. "I wasn't trying to coerce you into having sex with me or...or — I'd never do that. I — "

"Stop overthinking things," John interrupts, catching Rodney's gaze and holding it, expression earnest in a way that it seldom is. "Remember the part where I _like_ prickly, sarcastic Rodney?" He shifts his right hand from Rodney's bicep, curling his fingers around the side of Rodney's neck instead, fingertips grazing across an erogenous zone and making Rodney drag in a startled, shuddering breath. His thumb rubs along Rodney's jaw and he holds eye contact for what seems like forever before leaning in and pressing a light kiss to Rodney's lips. When he draws away, he continues, "I just meant that maybe you should rest up for a few days, because you nearly died yesterday and you have a _hole in your skull_."

"If we wait to have sex until neither of us has nearly died recently, it's never going to happen," Rodney points out. It's not something he particularly wants to think about, all the times one or both of them have been in life-threatening situations; he's pretty sure John doesn't want to think about it, either, judging from the way his fingers tighten just a little, like if he can hold on hard enough he can keep Rodney from getting hurt again.

It's too intense. Rodney breaks eye contact before he gives in to the urge to make some sort of awkward declaration. Instead, he focuses his attention on undoing the buttons of John's uniform shirt, exercising what he considers to be sterling self-restraint in not heading directly for John's fly instead.

"So what you're saying is _carpe diem_?" John asks, obligingly dropping his arms to his sides as Rodney pushes the shirt off his shoulders. It slides down easily — one layer of armor relinquished, a few more square inches of vulnerable flesh bared — and Rodney's gaze follows it as it drifts to the floor at their feet.

 _That's John Sheppard's shirt, on my floor. John Sheppard is getting naked in my bedroom. With me._ The thought makes him a little dizzy, and he sits down on the end of the bed before his body can betray him. When he drags his gaze away from the puddle of black fabric, the first thing he sees is the way John's tee-shirt is rucked up just enough to reveal a strip of pale stomach and a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his black BDUs.

Self-restraint is overrated. 

"Well, I'm certainly in favor of seizing something," he says, his voice coming out rougher than he expects. For emphasis, he flattens his palms against the front of John's thighs and slides his hands up, skating lightly across the straps of the thigh holster, thumbs tracing the inseams of the BDUs, until he's framing the obvious bulge of John's erection. Above him, John's breathing stutters, and Rodney looks up. John's eyes are wide and dark, his parted lips glossy and wet, and Rodney _wants_.

The moment stretches, silent but for the sound of their ragged breathing, and then John says, " _Rodney_ " all soft and desperate, and something wrenches in Rodney's chest, underneath his ribs. It's a sensation not at all unfamiliar to him, he realizes — a kissing cousin to the twisting ache that accompanies his awareness of John's suicidal heroics in the field. Between one breath and the next, Rodney is in possession of an epiphany: this isn't just the familiar hot coiling of desire for a friend — even an admittedly extremely attractive friend he cares about. No, he's _in love_ with John. The knowledge is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

He's not sure what his expression says — chances are it's giving everything away, because he's a terrible poker player, his every thought ending up writ large on his face — but John is staring at him, body so comprehensively still that Rodney can't tell if he's even breathing. Then suddenly John is _right there_ , straddling Rodney's lap and cupping his face with both hands, pressing fervent kisses into Rodney's mouth.

"Yeah," he breathes against Rodney's lips. "I know. Me, too."

Rodney's first instinct is to question — are they truly on the same page, and what does it mean if they are? — but the hard length of John's cock against him is a magnificent distraction. It seems perfectly easy, perfectly _natural_ , to slide his hands up under the back of John's shirt, to palm the heated skin between his shoulder blades and at the small of his back. Rodney holds on tight and lets himself fall backward, taking John with him; it's almost perfect except for the fact that Rodney can't stifle the pained inhalation when his head hits the mattress. It makes John freeze up and pull away far enough that they can see one another's faces without going cross-eyed, and Rodney's hands slip from John's back to rest at his waist.

"I'm fine," Rodney says preemptively. "I just forgot, for a second."

John stares at him. "You forgot you had head trauma?"

Rodney bites back his knee-jerk sarcastic response, because it's not going to make John happy if he points out that head trauma tends to lead to one forgetting things. Instead, he repeats, "I'm fine." He feels fine, at least, though whether that's because he _is_ fine or because his body is flooded with endorphins is another question; honestly, he doesn't care which it is, not right now.

Surprisingly, John doesn't argue. "You scared the crap out of me, you know that? I need you to stop almost dying." His fingertips trace lightly over the bandage on Rodney's forehead.

"Pot, kettle," Rodney points out. The silence is deafening, and Rodney's pretty sure it's because neither of them can really make a promise to do anything different in future. Before it can get too uncomfortable, he says, "I can't help but notice the disappointing lack of nudity, Colonel," as he's sliding his hands up John's sides, rucking up John's tee-shirt as he goes. John obligingly sits up and tugs the shirt off over his head, baring his pale, lean torso with its generous dusting of dark hair. Rodney is so distracted by the view and the way John's weight settles across his thighs that he doesn't actually realize what he's said until his gaze makes it to John's face and he sees the raised eyebrows and grin. 

"Colonel?" John says. "Do you have some kind of military kink, _Doctor_?"

Rodney can feel his face heating. "No, no," he says, "it's just deeply ingrained habit." He can see, though, that John doesn't believe him. The blush probably isn't helping. He sighs and admits, "A habit I developed to remind myself that we're strictly work colleagues, but still really just a habit, John. It helps me maintain a professional distance." _And reminds me to keep my hands to myself,_ he doesn't add.

That's going to be the difficult part, he knows. It's one of the reasons he never took this chance before: he's terrible at compartmentalizing. He's not at all sure he can sleep with John and go on missions with Colonel Sheppard without any cross-contamination. Worse, he's not at all sure he cares whether or not he can. 

"To tell you the truth, I kind of like it." John's focus is on Rodney's shirt now; he's deftly slipping the buttons through the holes, his fingers brushing against Rodney's chest and stomach through the soft fabric as he works. "When you call me John," he clarifies. "It feels...you know."

Rodney knows. "Intimate."

"I was going to say friendly, but yeah, that too." 

John is still staring determinedly at where he's almost done unbuttoning Rodney's shirt, and Rodney gets the feeling they've reached the extent of John's willingness to talk about feelings for the moment. If he's honest with himself, it's something of a relief; there are very few times when he actually cares about the impact his words have on people, but this is one of those times. He's fairly certain that he'll be better equipped to say the right things — and avoid saying all the wrong things — when he's fully recovered from his recent trepanning.

For now, his priority is to get John naked. He's reaching for the fly of John's BDUs when John finishes with his buttons and pushes the shirt open, thumbing Rodney's nipples lightly. It catches Rodney off guard, pulling an embarrassingly needy sound from him as he shivers under John's hands. John is staring down at him with the same wide-eyed wonder he reserves for the coolest of the Ancient devices that spring to life at his touch, and Rodney spares a moment to consider taking offense at being lumped into the same category as inanimate Ancient tech. Then John leans forward and swipes his tongue across Rodney's left nipple and Rodney stops thinking, just arches up against him, cock so hard it almost hurts.

"Jesus," John breathes, sitting back and fumbling with Rodney's fly. "I figured they'd be sensitive, but I had no idea how sensitive." 

"You've thought about the potential responsiveness of my nipples?" Rodney manages, surprised.

The tips of John's ears are pink again, and he's not meeting Rodney's gaze when he answers, "They're always hard, even when it's not cold; it's kind of distracting. I figured they had to be pretty sensitive, for the rub of your shirts to make them stand up like that. Here, lift up." Rodney does — as much as he can at least, with John still straddling his thighs — and John tugs pants and boxers carefully down to just below the curve of Rodney's ass, freeing his erection. 

"I've thought about your mouth," Rodney blurts, attention caught by the wet, shiny curve of John's freshly licked lower lip. "Imagined it on my cock."

"Really." John stretches the word out, not a question at all, and the wicked, crooked smirk is back. He draws away, off the end of the bed, pulling Rodney's pants and boxers down as he goes. Once he's stripped them off, he says, "Scoot up," with a jerk of his chin toward the head of the bed. Rodney scoots.

For a few moments John's attention is on removing his thigh holster, and Rodney takes the opportunity to openly look without the need to be subtle or circumspect. He's had surprisingly few opportunities to see John even partially undressed over the last four years, so he's determined to take advantage of this one, committing details to memory: strong shoulders and narrow hips, the flat plane of his stomach, the sprinkling of gray in the otherwise-dark chest hair, the thick treasure trail leading down to the still-fastened fly of his BDUs.

Rodney's got one hand on his cock, stroking slow and easy, and is about to suggest that John strip out of the BDUs, too — he wants to catalog everything about John, preferably in minute detail with all five senses — when John finishes setting his holstered sidearm carefully on Rodney's desk and distracts him by kneeling on the foot of the bed, nudging Rodney's legs further apart until there's room for him between Rodney's spread thighs. Rodney props himself up on his elbows as John leans forward, hands on the bed to either side of Rodney's hips. Slowly, so slowly, gaze locked with Rodney's, John traces a delicate line with his tongue from the base of Rodney's cock up to the head.

"Oh God," Rodney says faintly.

That earns him an actual grin, and a casual, one-shouldered shrug. "Thanks, but you can just call me John."

Rodney can't help the snort of laughter. He can't believe he's been picturing John as some kind of smooth Casanova all these years; he _knows_ the man, for God's sake, and his heart — for all that it comes wrapped in a deceptively all-American-quarterback–looking package — is still that of a Grade A fanboy, complete with terrible pick-up lines and a truly breathtaking range of geeky knowledge. He's kind of perfect for Rodney, despite his unfathomable preference for Marvel over DC.

"It's cruel to be a cocktease to the wounded man, John," Rodney says, and it comes out a little breathless.

John's smile softens. "The wounded man should relax and trust that I'll get him where he's going." 

The thing is, Rodney does. He trusts John implicitly, with everything from the safety of the city to Rodney's own life. Letting himself fall back against the pillows, Rodney waves a hand in a vague gesture he's fairly certain John will correctly interpret to mean "be my guest."

John starts slow, settling in between Rodney's legs, half draped over one of Rodney's thighs with his elbow on the bed at Rodney's hip like he's planning to be there awhile. His first touches are light and teasing, fleeting brushes of tongue and fingers along the length of Rodney's cock and circling the sensitive head. Rodney loses himself in the feel of John's skin against his as John takes his time working him over — painstaking and thorough, occasionally glancing up from under dark lashes as if to gauge Rodney's reaction to what he's doing — and when John finally, _finally_ curls his fingers firmly around the base of Rodney's cock and angles it up so that he can slide his mouth down over the head, it's all Rodney can do not to thrust his hips.

He can't stop the small sound of protest, though, when John pulls off almost immediately.

"Shhh," John says. He takes Rodney's hand from where it's clenched at his side and gently coaxes it open, then guides it to the back of John's head, giving Rodney tacit permission to hold him in place. John must hear the way Rodney's breath stutters at the realization, because the corners of his eyes crinkle as he takes Rodney's cock in his mouth again, all tight wet heat.

Rodney hesitates for just a second, John's hair silky and soft under his palm, and then he presses down gently. John inhales sharply and his eyes flutter closed, and Rodney has just enough functioning brain cells to think _oh, he likes it_. He tries again, this time holding John still and pushing his hips up, pushing his cock further into John's mouth, and he's rewarded with a quiet, needy noise. Things are quick and disjointed after that — John's moans sending vibrations down the length of his cock; John's throat impossibly hot and tight as Rodney thrusts up, fucking into his mouth; John's blissed-out expression and ragged, gasping inhales every time Rodney pulls back enough to let him breathe — and Rodney almost misses the point at which the heat pooling low in his belly approaches critical mass. 

" _John_ ," he manages, trying to pull back, but John follows him down, burying Rodney's cock deep in his throat, the clench as he swallows around the head too much for the remaining shreds of Rodney's control. He thrusts one last time and comes.

It can't be more than ten or fifteen seconds before the last of the aftershocks are fading and he realizes what he's done. He pulls his hand away like he's been burned and collapses back onto the bed, his oversensitive cock making a filthy wet pop when John finally releases the head. 

"Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to — " He waves a hand, trying to bring his brain back online to explain that yes, he's an asshole, but not _that_ kind of asshole. 

The look John levels at him is filled with heat, but it's not anger. His pupils are huge, a thin ring of hazel barely visible around the outside, and his mouth is red, lips a little swollen. He looks debauched, and if Rodney were a decade younger it would be more than enough to have him up for a second round, he thinks, before realizing John hasn't come yet, so technically it's still the first round.

He curls one hand around John's bicep and tugs lightly. "C'mere. Let me — " 

John ends up straddling his hips, which isn't what Rodney intended but it does put John's fly within reach, so he can go with it. He slides his fingers under the waistband, a little shock going through him at the realization that instead of the soft cotton of boxers, all he feels is John's bare skin hot against the backs of his knuckles. He takes a steadying breath and slips the top button free. John doesn't move to help — or to stop him, for that matter — but just watches Rodney's hands work down the line of buttons, unfastening them one at a time until John's cock is freed. When Rodney wraps his fingers around the shaft, though, John's hand closes over his and Rodney looks up into his face.

John licks his lips, the gesture back to looking nervous. "It's not going to take much," he says, his voice cigarette and whiskey rough, and Rodney's already opening his mouth to say something reassuring when he realizes _why_ John sounds the way he does, a flash of sense memory crashing over him: John's throat tight and slick around the head of his cock. It's hot as hell for half a second, until the guilt crashes down on him.

"Fuck, John," he says, brain to mouth filter apparently knocked offline, "your voice."

In his hand, John's cock twitches. "Yeah," John agrees, and somehow Rodney doesn't think they're on the same page about _this_ at all. Then John's curling his hand tighter around Rodney's and thrusting into their combined grip, and Rodney decides the subject would be better addressed sometime in the future, when John isn't fucking into his fist and looking about thirty seconds from orgasm.

It turns out to be an overly generous estimate, because all Rodney has to do on the next upstroke is run his thumb through the pre-come beading up from the slit and John is shuddering and coming all over Rodney's stomach. 

"Next time," Rodney says as soon as John's breathing starts to even out, "you're going to take your pants off."

John leans to the side a little, reaching for something on the floor beside the bed. "Anyone ever tell you you're bossy, McKay?" he asks, coming up with his tee-shirt, which he drops into the mess on Rodney's stomach. Rodney pretends to think about the question while he mops up the cooling spunk.

"Not that I can recall," he says finally, tossing the shirt toward the laundry chute, then he shifts over a little, making room for John to lie on his side next to him. 

John props himself up on one elbow, his other hand splayed flat, slightly to the left of center on Rodney's chest and one of his legs thrown possessively over one of Rodney's. "So, since Antarctica?" he says, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Really?"

Rodney rolls his eyes, but doesn't bother to try to keep the fondness out of his tone when he replies, "Oh, shut up. Smug is not an attractive look on you. I'm beginning to question whether I actually like you at all."

John's grin just widens. "Liar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, funny story. When I first planned to write fic for Claire's impending birthday, I thought I'd finish up an MCU (Phil/Clint) story I had in progress. When I looked it over, I realized that even though it only had one more part to go, that part was probably going to be 6-10k, which I didn't really have time to write. Instead, I decided I'd write her a brand new porny little John/Rodney story...which ended up being over 6k words. *facepalm*


End file.
